


masks & treaties

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And then i quoted some dead critics, Gen, HISTORICAL INACCURACIES ABOUND, Literally pulled titles out of a hat man, M/M, Masquerade Ball, They’re both sad drama queens it’s not deep, and leave the sad drama queens behind, i feel like there needs to be a sequel where he gets to go off on adventures, sherlock is rolling his eyes so hard, what is parenting lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: The neighboring kingdom has been wreaking havoc at the borders and all attempts at diplomacy have thus failed; loath to go to war over mere skirmishes, Chancellor Mycroft seizes upon Prince Moriarty's masquerade ball to infiltrate the palace on the eve of his birthday. Because obviously that's the best way to get the job done. Obviously.





	masks & treaties

There is trouble at the border again, as there has been for the past half year - acts of terror, unrelenting. The villagers had held fast the first ten days. Then the next. Then they became collateral, finding their way up the palace steps in mourning song when they had nothing left.

 

It isn't war, it isn't a broken treaty; these are mere skirmishes in the scope of war, but a plague on this otherwise plentiful time of peace.

 

A black knight stomps into receiving hall of the palace, interrupting the Chancellor’s audience with the King.

 

“They're like cockroaches,” he says, pulling off his black helmet and shaking out his dark curls that have been slicked back with sweat, shinier than the near-matte black of his unique, plated armor. “Lost two men. Some of my best injured. Lost a horse as well.”

 

“Sherlock,” the Chancellor says to his brother. “Welcome back.”

 

He, the Chancellor, turns back to the King.

 

“As you can see, our efforts on the ground have done little to deter our fickle, violent neighbors. We stave them off at best, and at growing cost,” he says, eyeing Sherlock. “See my brother has already come to ask for more men so soon.”

 

“And what do you suggest, Mycroft?” the King asks.

 

“Requests for an audience or treaty with the neighboring kingdom have failed, and we haven't been able to get a messenger past the Musgravian border, marked or not. Shows of force so far have failed. We may have outstrategized them time and again, but we are still engaged in battle, and that itself is a loss. If we are not willing to wage war, we must seize the next opportunity we have to send someone deep into Reichenbach, so we are able to determine what their endgame is.”

 

“And how do suggest we do this,  _ Spymaster?” _ Sherlock asks before the King is able. “You've tried before. You've failed.”

 

Mycroft purses his lips, a sharp glance to his left doing nothing to silence his younger brother, before turning back to the King.

 

“Yes, Mycroft, how do you propose we sneak an agent past the border this time when all previous attempts have resulting only in the loss of  _ your _ men?”

 

“The prince is getting married, at long last, despite his father’s untimely demise being three years prior,” Mycroft says. “As such, carriages will be arriving from all over the kingdom into its center, and a list of families with eligible sons and daughters, nieces and nephews outside the kingdom have been permitted entry.”

 

The King sits forward.

 

“We've the list, then?”

 

“Of course, Your Majesty. Better still, the ball is a masked one, and it will be simple enough to...persuade a member on the list to lend his or her identity and disappear for a few days, while one of our most trusted takes their place,” Mycroft says. “It lasts three nights, which is enough for us to infiltrate and discern their ploy.”

 

“I won't do it,” Sherlock answers before he is asked, glaring.

 

“I hadn't planned for you to,” Mycroft says calmly. 

 

“Who, then?” the King asks.

 

Mycroft is quiet for a moment. 

 

“I've failed twice over now,” he says, quiet and solemn. “And I've failed still again, being unable to find a solution. I will go myself, and see to it that this is done.”

 

Sherlock turns on him in shock, while the King gives him an assessing look. 

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, uncertain laughter in his voice. “It is hardly your domain, to sneak around gathering facts for yourself like a kitchen maid. Surely you have others -”

 

“Not in this case, Sherlock.”

 

His brother becomes agitated at that. 

 

“You haven't seen them like I have.  They're hunting for sport, demons of chaos, yes, but not without purpose. They've been  _ ordered _ to wreak terror as they have, and they fear the one who has been giving these orders more than pain of death. We don't even know that it is connected to the crown, not for certain. Who knows what you will find once you cross the threshold -  _ if _ you make it so far?”

 

Mycroft masks his expression, unwilling to get into yet another argument with his brother in front of the King, in the midst of presenting the last tactic he has. 

 

“Your request is granted.”

 

The brothers Holmes turn to their King, neither able to hide their initial surprise.

 

The man rises from his throne heavily, and nods once at Mycroft, before dismissing the head of his army and the master of his shadows, and retiring to his rooms.

 

.

 

Mycroft winces as the carriage overcomes yet another snag, throwing him hard into the wooden side of it in the process.

 

The Baron Lambert of the Bartholomew family had willingly given up his seat after a bit of - persuasion. He was now being put up in the palace itself, in the lower levels of course, for his safety, and would remain in this well-meaning detention until Mycroft had either returned successful, or failed to return.

 

The jewel-toned brocade of his waist coast suddenly feels like a prison.

 

Mycroft clears his throat.

 

Sherlock’s men are loyal, and they would sooner fall on their own sword than let the man come to any harm in battle. But men alone are not the sole deciders of fate, and it is only a matter of time before Sherlock is bested. And when that happens, it will hardly matter whether his demise came at the hand of a shrewder opponent, or mere chance.

 

Mycroft will not let that happen. 

 

“Worry not, brother,” Mycroft had said. “I need only to be there in person to easily determine what we cannot afar. I shall hardly be in any real danger.”

 

His assurances had done nothing to placate Sherlock, who only scowled at him and stomped off, calling his men to train.

 

The carriage is slowing to a stop to be checked by the crown’s own patrol. This is the first test. He has all the papers, all the seals. There should be no way any of these men have seen the real Baron before.

 

Still, it's a tense, long moment as he awaits inspection - and Mycroft has to remind himself it’s far from over when he passes without further scrutiny. As he predicted, the guards are bored, having diligently checked the first many arrivals and found no signs of fraud or foul play. Near the end they would again become vigilant, but for now, this was the safest place to be.

 

Close to the middle, hidden in plain sight.

 

Mycroft dons the persona of a member of near foreign lower nobility - curious about the palace and whether it lives up to rumors, and excitable at novelty, but with little hopes of actually securing an audience - much less marriage - with royalty.

 

Amid these other shining, preening peacocks, Mycroft is neither an awkward wallflower - like those on the edges of the dancing, clearly self-conscious about the richness of their costumes - nor is he as ostentatious as the silver-filigreed trio of wintry birds who must be sisters, standing side by side in a way that forces everyone to move around them, claiming attention with their poses.

 

“Oh.”

 

Mycroft turns his head on hearing the startled voice, coming face to face with a mask of plated, metal scales that glitter red and green.

 

Not unlike his. 

 

Unlike his, however, the sides were adorned with feathers; his own ended in looping metalwork, extending far back enough to obscure the shape of his face. The similarities continued elsewhere as his own garments are embellished with the scale motif as well, featuring from one shoulder to another a looping sea serpent, whose mouth meets its tail in the space just beneath his cravat. The man before him - shorter,  with his hair slicked back - wore a cape where Mycroft had none, an ouroboros draped over his back. He hand on his hands scaled gloves.

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

 

“Dear me, they'll think we attended the ball together,” he remarks lightly.

 

The man grins. “Months of hard work gone to waste, I'll have to have my tailor beheaded,” he jokes.

 

Mycroft’s smile is barely there. He, as a minor noble who has been enjoying life far from the capital, is suddenly embarrassed to be caught unawares, possibly duped by a tailor who hadn't an original idea of his own.

 

“Ah yes, though neither of our creatures  _ really _ are fit for a menagerie,” he says, referencing the theme of the ball.

 

“Hm, a problem clearly unique to our crown. What is it they say in Musgrave? Order and peace above all? Leave to Reichenbach all its false brilliance and foolish glitter,” he says.

 

“Careful,” Mycroft says, eyes sparkling in kind, “Could get jailed for treason - wouldn't want the wrong person hearing that.”

 

The man laughs, then jerks his head toward the throne, where a tall, solidly built man sat, his hair a mane of gold, his mask leonine. “The prince is much too far to hear.”

 

“Oh?” Mycroft's tone is joking but he is not. “You think the king has no spies in our midst? What with a masked ball of concealed identities.”

 

“The prince,” he corrects. “Not yet king. Not really, until he is married. Spies he might have, but there is nothing these nobles might say masked they wouldn't drunk. It is no matter. Besides, most know each other well, and have been jealously tracking the progress of each other's costumes.”

 

He smiles slyly. “Which means you must be new.”

 

Mycroft allows himself to flush, and look down with a slight nod.

 

“Yes, I confess, I've been quite content with my business outside of the state. But an invitation forwarded by my uncle had me intrigued,” Mycroft says.

 

The man cocks his head, intrigued. 

 

“Ah, perhaps I have been too revealing of my identity,” Mycroft hastens to say. He shies away just a fraction, but the man leans forward just as much. Interesting. 

 

The music starts, and the man brightens with a look to the orchestra. 

 

“Come,” he says with a laugh, already one hand on Mycroft’s arm, another ready to brace his lower back. “We must dance.”

 

Mycroft blinks at him, following nonetheless. 

 

“Otherwise they'll think the happy couple had a row,” he continues to tease.

 

“We can’t have that,” Mycroft says.

 

They’ve already spun into the center of the throngs of dancers when Mycroft again catches a glimpse of the prince, and mid-twirl, his partner notices his watching.

 

He frowns.

 

“I didn’t prevent you from seeking an audience, did I?” he asks, nodding toward the long, long line of people waiting to have a moment with the prince. “My apologies, I should have guessed. Why else leave your lush estate to join us squabbling nobles, if not to try your chance at winning the king’s hand?”

 

Mycroft looks down at him, slightly startled.

 

“Heavens no,” Mycroft says. “What could possibly transpire in a few moments of conversation that would make him think he’s found a fitting partner? I am merely curious.”

 

That seems to amuse his dancing partner.

 

“Worked well enough for us, didn’t it?” he asks. “I’m quite happy with my match.”

 

The music slows, and so too do their steps. He leans in close to whisper. “Who from the room do you think he will pick?”

 

Mycroft glances around.

 

“It would appear the prince fancies himself a lion,” Mycroft considers.

 

“Hmm and which one of these pretty critters would be a fitting match to a lion?” the man responds. They take a turn around the dance floor, peering this way and that at the various creatures swimming in the sea of costumes.

 

“I hardly think he’d choose one of the birds,” Mycroft says. “Not the fanciful creatures that frighten easily and take flight at the first sign of danger, and the predatory ones have much too nasty an edge for someone with the sense of pride and nobility that would lead him to choose a lion for his own visage.”

 

He snorts, burying his face against Mycroft’s arm as his shoulders shake with a laugh.

 

“That eliminates nearly half the room!” he says.

 

“Ah, but that should ease any concern he might have in finding the right partner in just two nights.”

 

“He does have until the third night to make the announcement,” the man muses.

 

“Historically he would wait until the end of the week,” Mycroft says.

 

“You think it’s too soon,” the man says, not a question. In fact, there’s almost an edge of accusation to it.

 

Mycroft pretends to consider the scenario. “Perhaps my own inexperience with love is the culprit. However, I would prefer to think of it as concern for the crown. He is meant to be our king, and I would not wish him locked into an unhappy union, or be weighed down with a partner who cannot adequately support him.”

 

The man seems to soften at that.

 

“You’re very pragmatic,” he comments.

 

“Yes, a known fault of mine.”

 

He bats his eyelashes. “But a good trait in a co-ruler.”

 

Mycroft coughs to hide a laugh. 

 

“No, I won’t talk to him,” Mycroft says. “I’d be much too embarrassed. I’ve already made a fool of myself not a moment after having set foot in this hall, bearing the same motif as you.”

 

“Ah yes,” the man says, running his fingers up and down Mycroft’s shoulder, stroking at the paneled, slightly iridescent scales. Thankfully he is studying the design, and not Mycroft’s flush. “And what does it say about a man, that he would choose to hide as a snake?”

 

“That I have misplaced faith in my tailor,” Mycroft says with a sigh.

 

But the man doesn’t laugh, just looks up at Mycroft with a small smile.

 

“Oh, no, you’re much too clever for that,” he says, before lowering his gaze again, eyelashes nearly brushing the edge of the holes cut in the mask as he contemplates, head tilting this way and that. Mycroft wonders whether it is the costume that has him adopting such reptilian affectations, or if this mercurial creature merely chose his dress well.

 

“I think you have a secret,” he finally says.

 

Mycroft isn’t bothered. “I suppose we all do.”

 

He nods agreeably. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says. “But your’s - I’m sure it’s terribly fascinating.”

 

Mycroft chuckles. “You flatter me.”

 

“A gentleman would return the favor,” he insists. 

 

“You've been a truly delightful conversationalist,” Mycroft says obediently. 

 

“And dance partner.”

 

“Ah, yes. Are you not yet tired of me? I've monopolized your time,” Mycroft says. The song changed ages ago, and most have switched partners already twice. 

 

“I shall never tire of you,” he declares as they spin. “I've barely scratched the surface, and that's usually no small task for me in barely just a glance.”

 

“Won't you want for an audience with the prince yourself?” Mycroft is truly curious now. 

 

“I've met him,” he deadpans. “We don't get along.”

 

“Not an enjoyable dance partner?

 

“Two left feet.”

 

The man nods toward the woman in purple greeting the prince. She, too, is covered in scales - ones that cling to the curves of her bosom and waist, hugging her hips before a cascade of shimmering, half-transparent fabric flares out into a trailing skirt. Sea shells adorn her hair, a loose mass of waves that have been powdered to resemble sea foam.

 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, raising an eyebrow. “Daring. Likes a touch of drama, but don’t we all.”

 

“Hm.” He looks again. “She came alone, and is undeterred about it. She may not have serious enemies, but she doesn’t have many friends either. She would be a risky choice.”

 

“And selfish in bed,” he adds.

 

Mycroft’s dance partner smiles but doesn’t comment, and then he points out another. 

 

“Him?”

 

“The antlers are  _ certainly _ impressive,” Mycroft says, blinking twice. “I’m not quite sure he thought the logistics through, however, as they make it awfully difficult for anyone to get close. Must be well off, but inexperienced in the ways of the world.”

 

“What about the one in white furs?”

 

“I have to admit, I am unable to discern what kind of creature it is, but goodness, I suppose it is a tempting view.”

 

The music speeds up and Mycroft misses the next question. He has to ask him to repeat it.

 

“What about me?”

 

Mycroft holds his gaze as they turn, considering. 

 

“You’re bored,” Mycroft finally says. “Your family is of a long-established line, and likely you know these other nobles - the ones who matter - all too well. It’s why you’ve spent three, now four, songs with me.”

 

If the man is surprised, he quickly masks it.

 

“Perhaps I just find you unduly attractive,” he says. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and Mycroft notices not for the first time that night what a sinful mouth it is. 

 

Mycroft chuckles, but he knows that the appeal of a masquerade is largely the allure of a tryst with a mysterious stranger. But he can’t run the risk of unmasking himself before a stranger tonight. More importantly, he has work to do. No matter how tempting this creature is. 

 

Mycroft already has plans to duck out long before the ball is over, so as to roam where he shouldn’t while everyone important is preoccupied with drink and dance. He had told Sherlock he needed no more than to look upon the crown and those around it to glean their motivations - it was a lie. 

 

The little game they played pointing out various suitors had been a useful way for him to mask his surveying the lay of the land, but Mycroft still needs to speak to some others to confirm his theories. 

 

There is something odd about the prince lounging on the throne. That man now kissing the hand of the sweet little dove is not easily fazed, but not particularly ambitious. He is not directing the attacks to expand his own borders, nor using them as a show of strength. If he knows about the skirmishes at the border, he does not care, he is content in its cruelty - but he is not cunning enough to be the one directing their efforts. 

 

The man in Mycroft’s arms, however, seems to know a great deal about the crown and kingdom - and Mycroft can’t ask him without instantly raising suspicion.

 

“What else?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“What else have you deduced of my character from tonight? Besides my prowess as a dance partner and my weakness for tall, mysterious beauties such as yourself.”

 

Mycroft tries to let himself imagine, for a moment, who he might be were he unburdened with the safety of his nation. Would he tell this man that he would prefer their discussions take place in one of those shaded alcoves, where so many have already disappeared to? That he wishes to ravish that pink mouth? To steal away privacy with him, but cease this talk?

 

“I think you're terrifyingly capable,” Mycroft finds himself saying. “Look how quickly you've charmed me. I'm sure someone of your skills combined with your stature is playing a vitally important role.”

 

He laughs. “Let's not talk about work.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees easily.

 

In fact, they spend the next song in silence. It somehow feels even more intimate than the revealing words they had traded before. His gaze never once leaves Mycroft's face, and Mycroft feels he is being reeled in, inch by inch.

 

The song ends, and he seems suddenly shy. 

 

“It's a horrid cliche that I'm saying this at a masquerade, but somehow you make me feel myself,” he says. “It's - as if I don't have to play a part.”

 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft says, a vague answer.

 

“It's true!” he protests. “I've scarcely ever wanted to  _ talk _ to someone to enjoy their company. Usually I prefer other games.”

 

“Ah, you sound like a dangerous man.”

 

He seems torn between being pleased and concerned; then they part as the music ends, and bow.

 

“What a waste,” Mycroft comments quietly. His partner turns to follow his gaze.

 

“You think the prince a waste? Or the ball?”

 

“His mind,” Mycroft says. “It's no small task to secure peace, just look at the struggling empire to our north. Yet our kingdom has never been so wealthy as the years since our King James III’s death, God let him rest in peace.”

 

His new friend regards him strangely, and Mycroft looks abashed. 

 

“I apologize, I promised no talk of work and quickly moved on to politics, a far heavier topic.”

 

“No, go on.”

 

“He’s fascinatingly clever, you must be able to see that. Yet he’s completely isolated himself - a clear sign he hasn’t had the luxury of finding someone he feels he can confide in. Yet, putting the kingdom in such order in so few years, and now with this ball, he must be realizing he’s now atop a summit few have witnessed. He’s alone, and has worked too hard for his people. Should he realize that there is nothing left to do to secure their prolonged happiness, how can he seek his own without companionship and guidance? I fear he will take a darker turn. Greed, perhaps. Or the wrath of war. Sin comes all too easily.” 

 

“Some would say you care far too much.”

 

“He is my king, after all. I can't help but worry he won't find the best match. All this work, all this extraordinary talent, and, of course, the graces of God. Does he not deserve to be happy?”

 

The man startles, looking up at him, blinking. 

 

“I'll get us some drinks,” he says quickly. Mycroft nods, though he has no intention of letting food or drink that may have been tampered with past his lips. 

 

He watches as the snake weaves through the people, and then himself takes a backward step, and then another, until he disappears into the crowd.

 

Mycroft makes his early exit, to ensure no one is around to see where he is heading, much less where he is staying. 

 

But before he's made his way out of the palace, Mycroft ducks into one of those dark alcoves as the curiosity arises.

 

Behind the tapestry on the wall, there is a further hidden image. He pushes it aside, surprised to find a family portrait. the late King Moriarty III, who is dark, the late Queen, who is fair, and their young son, still a child in the portrait - the prince.

 

He startles, coming face to face with the darkly intelligent eyes that have in just one night become so familiar. 

 

.

 

The inn is run by a trusted soul, the niece of an acquaintance. The uncle wasn't a spy, per se, but a historian with few personal allegiances.

 

As such, the man had left behind countless journals - recordings of ongoings at the court and observations of society at large. The real Lambert of Bartholomew had been questioned thoroughly, and it wasn’t as if the kingdom could overnight turn on its head half a year ago since the attacks got serious, but Musgrave and Reichenbach were never particularly close.

 

A few short years into the last king’s reign, a sort of paranoia had overtaken his rule. Though their enemies were few and far in between, so were their allies. The royal family never made appearances, and as the years went on, its advising council shrunk in on itself. 

 

This paranoia characterized the prince’s rule as well, with orders only carried out through intermediaries upon intermediaries, the prince rarely showing his face outside his quarters. 

 

The portrait Mycroft had stumbled upon is supposed to be one of the last depictions of the royal family.

 

Despite the reclusiveness of its royals, Reichenbach scarcely went a month without a spectacle of a party. The diversions kept its nobles in line - busy with planning, busy with social graces and the language of the court, and simply  _ busy _ .

 

The kingdom’s finances were in good standing, and its economics operating smoothly. Those in estates further from the capital, like Lambert of Bartholomew, were not many. They rarely attended court functions like the monthly extravaganzas or the many concerts, but resided peacefully over their own lands, the remoteness of location security enough.

 

The economy had only further improved under the prince’s rule with a diversification of resources. But while their trade partners had multiplied, the crown made no close ties, and scarcely had allies that would come to their aid should they need it. 

 

Perhaps, Mycroft thinks, the prince really is simply bored. 

 

And lonely. 

 

He can see no reason for the kingdom to purposely antagonize its closest neighbor, especially not with so few allies left. 

 

Mycroft lowers his face into his hands. James Moriarty IV. The prince, soon to be king, though he was already all but in name. He had no need to question others, then, if he could manage to get answers from the source. 

 

.

 

On the second night of the ball, the room is awash in gold. The theme is meant to be gods and legends, and so the attendees have mostly come dressed in flowing light fabrics and chains of gold. The more ambitious fashionistas have come as dramatically rendered mythological creatures.

 

Mycroft looks almost as hopeless as he feels, like he nearly didn’t come and had to force himself. On some level, it’s true.

 

His costume this night is comparatively plain, not wanting to attract too much attention either way. In white and gold, adorned with gold leaf and grape motifs, he fits in well enough, fading into the background amongst the dreamy scenery.

 

“And who are you tonight?”

 

He turns around to find the secretive prince twirling a caduceus, seemingly wearing little but feathers. Mycroft feels something dangerous spike within him as he realizes how closely he's been watched, how his partner noticed even the passing interested glance he made at the ridiculous snow leopard costume they'd danced past the night before.

 

Mycroft gestures carelessly. “Liber, perhaps, or Ceres. My pastoral estates are all I know, and I thought it fitting. And you are no doubt Mercury.”

 

He nods but says nothing, more intent on studying Mycroft head to toe.

 

“You left, yesterday,” he says. 

 

“My apologies,” Mycroft says, sincere. “I suddenly felt ill, and it wasn’t until I returned that I realized it was in all likelihood, simply because I hadn’t eaten all day as I made the trip.”

 

“And  _ where _ , exactly, did you return to?” the prince asks, pulling Mycroft into the crowd of swirling dancers. “I checked, I  _ really _ did, but I couldn’t seem to find out.”

 

His mask today is gold, like most others. Except it covers his face from top to chin, with generic features molded in to obscure his own. Mycroft's own is similar, a simple plate of gold, but ends below the nose.

 

The prince's eyes glitter with some dark amusement when it becomes clear Mycroft won’t answer.

 

“You are even more interesting than I initially thought,” he says.

 

“Oh?”

 

The prince, with a hand to his lower back, gently guides him onto one of the balconies. 

 

If Mycroft had not already figured out who he was, the way the guards subtly adjusted their line of sight to secure the balcony and somehow managed to keep other guests from intruding is a dead giveaway.

 

The prince watches him carefully, and Mycroft is suddenly awash with regret.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

Had he not been wearing the mask, Mycroft is sure the prince’s brow would be furrowed with concern. For some reason he's taken an interest in Mycroft, and Mycroft can't be certain whether this is all a ruse because he's been found out.

 

“Were that we were different people, had we met in a different time and place, perhaps I would have the courage to offer you my heart,” Mycroft finds himself saying, as he looks out over the balcony. It's certainly private, and being here in the dark, with the prince, no less, under the stars, is somehow melancholic.

 

“Then let's elope,” is the prince’s simple suggestion. Mycroft laughs.

 

“So soon,” he jokes, though his heart feels heavy. He didn't think it possible to be so taken with a person after just one night, but just being in the presence of this man makes him dream of possibilities. It makes him want for a whole wealth of that he's long denied himself. He's being played for a fool.

 

Mycroft turns to look over out at the palace grounds, but the prince presses in close.

  
“I always knew that...I would be able to tell right away when I met my soulmate.”

 

“Soulmate?” What a ridiculous notion.

 

“Yes.” He sounds insistent. “I can tell a person's motives and character from a glance.  I can tell you're as brilliant as you are beautiful, you’ve been a half step ahead this entire time, which is awfully exciting. You know who you are and make no apologies, you're the type of man who would sooner shape the world to your wishes than bend to its will.”

  
“Sounds awfully selfish.”

 

He flutters his lashes and pretends to be coy.  “Maybe I want to see how you'd shape me.”   
  


“You're a devious one, aren't you.”

  
“Oh, you like it.”

  
“Then how can I trust anything you say?”   
  


Something complicated flickers in his eyes. 

 

“I suppose that's the point of a masked ball. Let’s us all be our selves in earnest.” He pauses. “I may joke, but I am sincere in this, as much as I have ever been. I feel you are meant for me. I’d go with you right now if you said yes. Do you truly feel nothing for me?”

 

He peers up at Mycroft and Mycroft knows he must look impossibly fond. He has no right to be.

  
“Loaded question darling, of course I don’t feel nothing, how could I, with such a fascinating creature in my grasp. But love is a great commitment, and not one I feel fit to rush,” Mycroft says, bringing his hand to cup the prince's face. He hears a sharp inhale of breath, and he's glad he hasn't been caught lying.   
  
“But surely the depth of it is with more than than propriety and ritual?” he protests. “If it's a proper courting you want, you will have it. But promise me you're mine. I know you feel for me too, this passionate thing that threatens to shroud all others. You want me. You’d love nothing more than to steal me away, and I’d love nothing more than to have you have me in the privacy of our own chambers. You could do anything you like to me, and I’d open to you beautifully. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.”   
  
Mycroft stops. He sounds so serious, edging on desperate, that it gives way to hope. That maybe even the reveal of their messy realities and the light of day won't turn his interest into some cruel joke. 

 

At Mycroft's frozen expression, the prince drops his gaze. A frustrated huff, and he grumbles, “I wish I hadn't worn this stupid mask. I want to ask you to kiss me.”

 

He moves to remove it, but Mycroft stays his hand. 

 

“Don't.”

 

He looks up in surprise, and Mycroft tells himself he is imagining the hurt.

 

He studies Mycroft's carefully blank face for a moment before finally lowering his own arms. 

 

“You know,” he says. “You’ve figured it out.”

 

The revelation tells Mycroft the royal family's paranoia was not exaggerated. Even most nobles cannot recognize the much taller man on the throne, because so few have been in the presence of the prince.

 

“Who are you?” he finally asks Mycroft. 

 

It's that question that has him running scared, when it should have been his tempting mouth and glittering eyes and the honeyed words that drew him in.

 

Mycroft is here, trapped in the arms of his enemy, too vulnerable to do what he came for. He had meant to destroy the crown from the inside out, leave it too busy dealing with internal matters to terrorize it's neighbors. He won't. He knows he won't. And here is hardly the setting for diplomacy. He won't hurt the prince by suggesting the meeting was purely meant for a treaty either. 

 

It's such a mess. His head is swimming. Mycroft turns to leave.   
  


The guards move immediately, and Mycroft stops mid-step. 

 

“Let him go,” the prince says, defeated, voice at odds with the murderous expression no one can see.

 

At the sound of his voice, Mycroft finds himself turning around yet again. He lifts the mask off his face, and the prince’s eyes flutter to a close for a moment as he does. 

 

When he opens them again, Mycroft recognizes this is not someone who lets himself be seen so vulnerable. He dips his head down to steal a kiss, not anticipating coming up around his next. He’s too lost in the moment. 

 

The prince kisses back, fingers working at the tie behind Mycroft’s head, so that when they part he can pull away Mycroft’s own mask.

 

“At least tell me your name,” he begs. “Whatever you’re here for, you know it’s not impossible.”

 

“I meant everything I said,” he adds. 

 

Mycroft opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

 

The fire burning in his eyes dies out to something dark and flat.

 

“But  _ you _ wish I didn’t,” he finishes for Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft lowers his gaze, so as to not look back into the desolate one he’d affected. Then he forces himself to pry his fingers from the prince’s hand.

 

Mycroft takes the obscuring mask the prince wore and sets it upon his own face. He walks out of the balcony, and the guards let him, before disappearing through the dancers, and then into the night.

  
.

 

.

 

“Well, you’ve done it.” Sherlock stomps into Mycroft’s study, throwing open the curtains with as much force as he did the door. Mycroft winces at the sunlight, having practically locked himself to the desk and his ledgers the past, oh, three days. 

 

Mycroft gives him a passing glance, before returning to the numbers.

 

“What?”

 

“We’ve been patrolling as usual, but since your return, the borders have been quiet,” Sherlock reports as he peers out the window like the curious, restless creature he is. “Our men have sighted archers and spies, but the formation is not the usual. They are not planning to attack, merely watching, to ascertain that we are doing the same.”

 

He narrows his eyes, turning to Mycroft.

 

“Yet you refuse to explain what it was you did,” Sherlock accuses. “You sit here, somehow ashamed, but the situation has never been so peaceful. You’ve not warned me to anticipate any retaliation - you would at least do so much, wouldn’t you?”

 

Mycroft looks horrified, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. That’s answer enough.

 

“I heard the king hasn’t married. Canceled the last of the three balls. Mysteriously quiet since,” Sherlock says with a side glance. He elaborates, “Your spy network has flourished under these neutralized borders. What did you do, kill him?”

 

Mycroft’s face is impassive.

 

“Bed him, then?”

 

Still nothing.

 

“Replace him with one of your puppets? Ah, well there’s an idea. Hardly anyone has seen him - it’d make little difference. Is that why the King doesn’t care to speak to you? You emptied his coffers making bribes to the enemy crown’s advisers?”

 

“You’ve quite the imagination.” Mycroft’s tone is dry, and that’s as close as he feels he can get to laughing.

 

Sherlock scowls, and whips the curtains to close with too much aborted force, so that they hang halfway. It’s sure to annoy his older brother, enough for him to step round the table to fix it himself. So he stomps back out.

 

.

 

.

 

“Jim.” A groan emerges, garnering a nudge in response, then a kick.

 

“You promised this would be  _ fun _ ,” a tall, golden man sighs from the beside. 

 

King James Moriarty IV (technically) lies facedown in his own bed, having not left it (more or less) for 60-some hours. His faithful (currently debatable) right-hand man, recognizable as the man he installed upon his throne during the masquerade. 

 

King James, or, Jim, mumbles something into the sheets completely unintelligible to all but those who have known him over half his life. Captain Sebastian Moran easily understands it to be, “playing prince landed you threesomes three nights in a row, what more do you want from me you unsympathetic traitor, you’ll rot in prison for your impertinence, just you wait.”

 

“Yes, and then the  _ last _ three days I’ve been twiddling my thumbs, haven’t I? Because of your little cease-fire. I’ve kept guard near the border in case they get any funny ideas about retaliation, but so far, not a peep. What’s the matter, are you already tired of that Black Knight we’ve been chasing? He’s been interesting lately, hasn’t he? Come  _ on, _ James, get up.”

 

“Leave me to die,” he shouts, muffled, into a pillow. 

 

The captain picks up another pillow, one kicked to the ground, and smacks his king on the head with it as hard as he can.  “You idiot.”

 

Then he dodges, as a small, dark ball of rage lunges at him from the bed with a scream, before tumbling to the ground when he misses. 

 

Sebastian peers down at Jim, not King James, but Jim, the scrawny, impish brat whose intensity of focus made him trouble-seeking without regard for consequences, that Sebastian had known all his life.

 

“What the hell happened?” he asks. 

 

“I hate you,” Jim says petulantly. “I hate everything. No one needs me, the kingdom is running fine. Let’s start a war. I hear the north is in shambles. Let’s burn it to the ground.”

 

Sebastian grins. “Happy to. Can’t plan a war from under your bed in your sleep clothes, though.”

 

“I could do it in my sleep and you know it.”

 

Sebastian shrugs, then holds out a hand to help pull Jim up. Jim slaps it aside and wobbles to his feet on his own.

 

“I’ll tell them to draw you a bath.”

 

Jim throws up an obscene gesture at him as he heads out.

 

.

 

Jim sinks into the scented bath and decides to see how long he can bear it, without air, submerged in scalding water. 

 

He gasps, sputtering as he hauls himself over the side, lungs straining to gather in more air than he can in such a short amount of time.

 

Sebastian sits some feet away, sharpening a sword.

 

“I could have drowned,” Jim said.

 

“Ye _ p _ ,” Sebastian responds. “S’why I’m here. To make sure you don’t drown yourself.”

 

Jim scowls.

 

“Get a carriage ready for me,” he demands. “I want to cross the border.”

 

Sebastian raises an eyebrow.

 

.

 

Jim cranes his neck this way and that, trying to see out the carriage windows. Was this the forest people had been making such a big fuss over? He had only ever seen it in maps, and Sebastian would describe the clashes between Musgrave’s masked knight in more detail than anything regarding terrain or formation, and certainly not the scenery.

 

The forest was large enough to have its own climate, though civilization settling down on either side had made it much longer than it was wide. 

 

His carriage slows to a stop, and Jim sees three armored men, swords at their sides, on horses. The tall one hops up, and approaches on foot. He ignores the driver to rap at the side of the carriage, and Jim cracks it open despite the sheer terror that must be spiking through his carriage driver’s heart. Imagine being the one to deliver the news that you had lost a king, all for some excursion you had no idea was to happen.

 

Jim looks the man up and down. The matte black armor does him little favor in the middle of the day, but in the shaded forest it is not a big disadvantage. Without his helmet, he looks arresting - dark curls, phoenix eyes shaded blue and green. 

 

“So you’re the knight my Sebastian is smitten with,” Jim says, tilting his head to study the new face. 

 

The knight’s expression sours. 

 

“What is your business?” he demands. 

 

Jim tsks. “No decorum at all. Should have known. He’s always had such bad taste.”

 

His carriage bears no royal insignia, and for all this man knows he’s some merchant or traveler. He could play the part, but he doesn’t care enough to. He’s exhausted, despite doing nothing but sleep since the ended the celebrations early. 

 

“You’ve been a lot of fun to play against,” Jim says. Oh, he’s clever. The knight’s eyes narrow and recognition is alight in that knowing gaze. 

 

“This is your doing then,” the knight says. “What devilish bargain have you struck with Mycroft?”

 

He draws his sword. “He may be accepting that peace comes at a price, but he’s not the only one who has a say in that cost.”

 

Jim looks down at the sharp blade so close to his neck. He can practically hear the driver’s heart pounding. It would be so  _ easy _ to just let it cut, let it sink in and draw blood.

 

He sighs, sounding remorse. 

 

“He’s left behind something, for certain,” Jim says. “And I’ve come to return it.”

 

“I will take it then.” The knight holds out a hand.

 

“It’s much too precious; I need to deliver it personally.”

 

“Then I will escort you.”

 

.

 

.

 

When Sherlock enters his room again, he has a strange look on his face, bordering concern but not quite that.

 

“What is the matter?” Mycroft asks immediately.

 

“You’ve...been asked for at an audience with the King,” he says, sounding unsure. Quite unlike Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft stands to go, but pauses in the doorway as Sherlock hasn’t stopped staring.

 

“I don’t know whether to laugh or scorn you,” he says guilelessly. Mycroft only gives him another strange look before rushing out.

 

He can hear them talking before he can see them. That voice - it’s James.

 

The cool, calculating negotiator standing before his King only bears a passing resemblance to the man he spent two nights dancing with. Mycroft feels a shiver run down his spine, and fears a reckoning.

 

But as he approaches, James Moriarty’s expression turns mischievous in a way that has become familiar.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he says, voice running over the letters like a caress, like he’s trying out the name for the first time, pleasantly surprised.

 

Mycroft bows.

 

“Mm, none of that,” he says casually. “I’m here to take you home.”

 

Mycroft’s head snaps up, then to his King. All he gets in return is an impassive expression.

 

“Your Majesty,” Mycroft says, his formal mask back in place, begging clarification. 

 

“It seems the terms are clear,” his King says, sounding not one bit worried.

 

“Terms?”

 

Moriarty smiles sweetly. 

 

“I am meant to choose a suitable marriage partner from the attendees of my birthday celebration,” he says. “By accepting my invitation to the celebrations of the king’s birthday, you expressed your intention to court me. I accepted.”

 

Mycroft’s mouth drops open. The irony is palpable. Never has one man rendered him speechless so frequently. 

 

Moriarty - not yet king, not really - looks worried for just a split second, before continuing his magnanimous offer.

 

“And thus I have come to take you home.” He holds out his hand to Mycroft, who glances at his own king, who evidently couldn’t care less.

 

Mycroft swallows, not allowing himself to be carelessly dismissed once again.

 

“Have I been so useless you mean to now throw me away?” he asks. Moriarty curls his open hand into a fist; he looks to be biting back words, eyes like daggers. It’s not a moment meant for him to interject.

 

“Your own son,” Mycroft adds quietly. At that, even Moriarty is taken aback.

 

The old king sighs, shifting his weight to his other side, before eyeing the Chancellor seriously. 

 

“You have always taken your duty seriously, but for all the weight of responsibility you’ve sought to take on, you continue to shy away from leadership, from the throne.”

 

“Sherlock is better suited - “

 

“He is,” the king cuts him off. “And so arguably, an alliance won through your hand is the height of what you shall be able to provide your people.”

 

Mycroft looks shocked. Though it’s true he’s shunned the throne - all that he has done - to suggest an alliance won is the height of what he has accomplished? 

 

His mind is still reeling when he finally registers a hand upon his.

 

“Come,” Moriarty murmurs, close and quiet. “We have  _ much _ to do.”

 

Mycroft looks down at the younger man, realizing at once that he’s being given a way out, even through the hurt of his king’s careless way of gifting him his freedom. 

 

His tiny smile promises more than freedom - it promises power and  _ mayhem.  _

 

“Will you come with me?” he asks. 

 

Thoughts of pleasing his king and kingdom flee his mind.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft whispers. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> it's done and I don't really think I'll ever get to a sequel (sorry Sherlock) but maybe one day I'll muster up an epilogue ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh


End file.
